What Was Wrong With The World?
by mysteryteenagelover
Summary: To be or not to be? To Dean or to Tristan?
1. Chapter 1

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This dedication is split three ways.

**To Vesh.**

**To Jackson.**

**And to Ella...my real life Lane.**

* * *

Rory tossed and turned in her bed. She couldn't sleep. She threw off the doona and twisted to another position. Ten seconds later she dragged it back over her, pulling it up to her head and lying on her back. Then she pulled it off again and stared at the ceiling. Thoughts, emotions and feelings ran unchecked through her mind. Dean's face came into her head, and she smiled slightly, remembering the other night. Then she frowned into the darkness, remembering that she still hadn't sorted all that out. Unbidden, Tristan's face surfaced in her thoughts. That English class…it was all a bit of a blur to her at the moment, but what she could discern from her swirling pool of emotions spelt out one word. Trouble.

* * *

"Hey, baby," Dean had said when he had stuck his head around the front door. Ignoring her mother's immature whistle, she had taken his outstretched hand and walked into the darkness.

"Hey," she whispered, when they were clear of her house. Then, struck by a sudden bout of mischief, she lead him to the secluded shed behind Babette's house. Not far away from the shed wall, she placed both hands on his face and pulled his face towards hers. Kissing him hungrily, she barely noticed that his hands gripped her shoulders rather harder than they normally would have. What she did notice, thought, was that he gently pushed her up against the wall of the shed. Back to wall, she pulled Dean to her again, loving the way his whole body pressed up against hers. Gently, his hands began to slide from their usual position on her waist to higher up on her stomach. His fingers slowly pressed into her ribs. Breaking their lip contact for the briefest of seconds, she whispered in her ear.

"Can I …touch…" He never finished his sentence, but it was clear from the fact that the backs of his hands stroked the sides of her breasts what he wanted. Rory hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He just caught the gesture through the darkness. His fingers, trembling, Rory noticed, undid the top two buttons on her blouse, sliding under it to stroke the very edges of her bra. Noticing his breathing growing a little heavier every time he touched her, Rory began to worry slightly. Gently tugging his hands away, she did up her buttons again and, ignoring Dean's puzzled face, turned her head away. Then she felt his hands on her waist, and had to turn back and face him.

"Hey, baby…it's fine. Anything you want…" he emphasised, before pulling her into a hug and letting her lie her head on his shoulder. Lips near her ear, Dean whispered something that made Rory completely speechless.

"I love you."

* * *

Rory stared at the ceiling now, at – she guessed – three in the morning. She had pulled her lips back to his mouth and kissed him again, and that had been that. As well as being glad that she had successfully distracted him, she couldn't help feeling terribly worried about what to do. He was sweet, and gentle, and so, so nice to her. But she didn't love him. She liked him – a whole lot – but she wasn't in love with him. Not yet, anyway. It had only been a month and a half…what was she supposed to do?

Rolling onto her other side, a ray of moonlight slanted across her copy of _Macbeth._ Which reminded her of her other pressing problem. And this problem's name was Tristan.

* * *

In Rory's English classroom, the desks were all in a square around the room, save for three. Those three were in a row at the front of the classroom, facing the side. Mr Medina always sat at the one on the far right. Tristan had come into class late, swearing at a freshman just outside the door on the way in. He had consequently been banished to the desk on the far left. So he sat there, staring around the classroom, running his hands through his hair and generally not doing any work. A few minutes into the class, Mr Medina stood up and handed back the class' essays on 'Macbeth is responsible for his own downfall. Discuss.'

After an embarrassing speech about the quality of the work, in which Rory's name was mentioned as an example of a 'model essay writer', their work was delivered back to them. A huge red A+ decorated the top of her paper. A secret smile to herself, and Rory picked up her pen to start on today's assignment.

"Rory! Couldn't give us a sec, could you?"

"Of course, Mr Medina," Rory made her way to the front of the class and stood in front of his desk.

"Come, Rory, sit!" Mr Medina patted the chair in front of the desk next to him. Feeling distinctly sandwiched between Mr Medina and Tristan, Rory leant over her paper as Mr Medina began to reread her essay. His finger stopped at the second paragraph.

"Now, Rory, this is fascinating. Explain this to me, can you? This here, where you've paraphrased the Macbeth's reaction to the prophecies. Can you tell me why you've done that?"

"Well, the whole scene was too vital to the play to just use quotes, so I thought I …" Rory was just about to add the 'would give the overview of the scene' to the end of her sentence when she felt the last possible feeling she thought she would feel at two in the afternoon and in an English classroom. Long, lean fingers were sliding up her skirt! For one, wild, insane moment, Rory thought that Mr Medina was trying to feel her up. Shaking that off, she realised that the hand on her leg was coming from the other side. Tristan.

She couldn't do anything. Mr Medina would notice if she punched him, or pushed him off his chair, or slapped his hand, and get him into further trouble. Much as she was shocked at him, she didn't want to get him into trouble. Meanwhile, Mr Medina was waiting for her to finish her sentence. She finished it, with difficulty and a distinct feeling that the words hadn't quite come out the way she had meant them to, and not in the order she had intended them either.

"Fascinating…that's a very mature approach for a person of your age," Mr Medina was saying, but Rory was having trouble concentrating. As she told Lane on the phone later, _you_ try concentrating when some guy's hand is up under you skirt doing God-knows-what. Mr Medina was just telling her exactly what he liked about 

the way she had structured her second paragraph when Tristan's fingers started tracing small circles on the inside of her thigh. She shivered involuntarily as waves of – was it desire? Surely not! – began to shoot up higher than his hand was. She shook her leg ever so slightly to try and dislodge her hand, but a second later wished she hadn't, because his hand crept even higher to brush across the edges of her underwear. An involuntary sharp intake of breath brought Mr Medina's eyes from her paper to her face in concern.

"Rory? Are you alright?" Struggling not to cry out in pleasure, she shook her head, trying to catch her breath.

"No…it's just…I just realised that I should have structured the third paragraph the same way, with the quotes _after_ the –" Tristan's hand continued its mesmerising progress – " – explanation, because that would have made my contention clearer." It had taken all of Rory's concentration to get that sentence out of her mouth in a logical way. Sighing relief, she leant back as Mr Medina continued to comment on her paper and she concentrated all of her energy on not crying out. Ten minutes later, Mr Medina thanked her for her input, and Rory stood up to walk back to her desk in wobbly legs. She couldn't believe what had just happened. Picking up her pen, she made notes on her next paper from the play. Lady Macbeth proved ambition to be a dangerous quality when she slowly goes insane … _"Out damn spot," _… Macbeth is driven to murder Macduff's family … Tristan's hand doing wonderful things to her legs …

God! She grabbed her hair. She couldn't concentrate, she couldn't do anything, she couldn't even think straight. What was wrong with her? The one time she looked up, Tristan's eyes were fixed directly on hers. Shaking her head slightly, a small smile crept to her lips before she could stop it.

* * *

And the worst thing was, Rory reflected in the darkness of three in the morning, that she liked it. It had felt wonderful. She wished she didn't have to get up and go back to her desk. She wanted to sit there and let him do fantastic things to her with his fingers, and she wanted to do them back to him. Rory wanted Tristan. She did, even if she would never admit it anywhere other than in her head. What was she going to do? Dean loved her, but she wasn't sure she loved him back. Tristan had all but felt her up in English class. What was wrong with the world?


	2. Chapter 2

Lying on her stomach on her bed, Rory flipped the pages on her novel. Certain words jumped out at her, but for once she couldn't concentrate on the wonderful world contained within the pages. For once, there was no look of intense concentration on her face that Dean loved as she read. Her mind was spinning. Giving up and sighing, she tossed the book aside onto her bedside table, reached over and turned off her lamp. Lying on her back, she stared up at the ceiling, listening to her mother trying to be quiet and failing at it. There was a sudden darkness on the landing, and then silence. Trying to empty her mind, she shut her eyes, and without even knowing how, she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Rory usually loved school, but today she couldn't concentrate. Today Tristan wasn't even looking at her; he was deep in conversation with Madeline. But still…

"Rory!" Mr Medina's voice snapped her out of her daydream, "Where's your copy of _Macbeth_?" Not used to being reprimanded in class, Rory mumbled something that sounded like 'locker', and quietly excused herself to go and retrieve it. Halfway back to class, play in hand, the last person she expected to see grabbed her wrist. Tristan pulled her around the corner and ducked them both out to the archway.

"Tristan! What're you…" But Rory never got to finish her sentence, because before she could string enough words together to make a full sentence, his mouth kissed hers hungrily. He pushed her up against the wall and took her mouth again, one hand steadying them both against the wall, the other already creeping to her breast.

Rory dropped her book.

His whole body pressed up against her, pinning her to the wall. Rory couldn't do anything but kiss him back, and she wasn't strong enough to push him away even if she had wanted to. It was his roughness with her that excited her the most; it was such a difference from Dean's gentle and tender kisses. Those made her feel safe, but Tristan thrilled her. His fingers, familiar from yesterday, found her legs under the skirt and traced the same patterns across her skin. Rory was shocked that she was allofwing herself to be touched like this at all, let alone not even behind closed doors. But the things that Tristan was making her feel rendered her incapable of reasoning with herself.

The bell that rang a minute later was the most unwelcome sound that Rory had ever heard. Dean had all but vanished from her mind, and Tristan was pressed her harder into the wall, tongue winding around hers in a way that made her feel things she had never felt before. Not like this. It made her feel pure lust, the wanting to have a man's body up against hers, a tugging between her thighs and a need to hold Tristan as close to her as she could get him.

She was never quite sure how she got there, but Tristan had her up against a door and was kissing her roughly. His hand felt for the door handle, and – accidentally? – brushed up against her thigh. Feelings exploded inside of Rory – passion and desire. When the door finally opened, the two of them fell inside the room. Rory underneath, the two of them collapsed onto Tristan's bed, Tristan parted her thighs with his knees, drawing an excited sound from the girl underneath him. Rory drew her hand down the side of Tristan's face, memorising every line and angle that there was. Tristan arched his body over her, his mouth finding her lips, throat and neck. He trailed hot kisses everywhere, and then blew on her skin until she was shivering and shuddering in pleasure on his bed. His hands found the top button of her school blouse and opened it. The others followed. His fingers lingered erotically over the slight rise of her breasts. She felt desire pull there, too, wanting him to touch her. Involuntarily, as Tristan's fingers nudged her breasts, she arched her back and called his name.

Suddenly, Rory was consumed by an almost primitive need to have him. She wanted to bite his sensual lower lip, she wanted to draw her fingernails over his back, she wanted to hear him growl as he stripped her clothes off her body. His touch felt like it was setting her on fire. Cupping her breasts with his hands, Tristan pulled roughly at one, then the other, making Rory groan. She felt him pull the bra form her, she felt his mouth bite and tug at her, fiercely and urgently. Her body arched in eager response to his wandering hands, even as his mouth teased her in the same place over and over again. Her soft sounds of delight thrilled him, even as his rough-and-ready hands scorched the skin they travelled over.

Rory lost all sense of rational thought after that point. She knew that she was almost growling as she pulled Tristan's shirt off. She was aware of the desperate noises Tristan made as he roughly pulled her out of her skirt. She remembered that when he had dipped his head between her thighs, she had cried out loud in desire. Rory remembered his whole body crushing her hotly down on the bed. She knew that their clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, and that her hands had travelled everywhere on his body. At one stage, she thought she heard a muttering of 'like it rough, do you?' from the man touching her. She knew that he thrilled her with his rough movements, his urgent mouth on her, his wandering hands and his insistence, making her damp with desire.

And he was groaning in pleasure, his hands tangling seductively in her hair, calling her name…

* * *

"Rory? What are you doing?" Dimly, Rory wondered why she could hear Lane's voice. They were at Tristan's…weren't they?

"Rory! Are you alright?" Lane was pulling at her shoulder, "Rory! What are you doing? We're going to be late for breakfast!" Lane was tugging her quilt.

"Lane?"

"Rory? What are you doing? You've been thrashing around ever since I got in here. You're going to be late for school and…are you sick?"

"No…I'm fine…I…" Rory tried to get a grip on her surroundings, but it was the hardest thing she had ever done to shake off that dream. Gathering herself together and putting her school clothes on in the bathroom a few minutes later, she couldn't help but notice that one part of her dream hadn't actually been a dream. Reaching for new underwear on her shelf, she tried to shake herself out of it. It was impossible. It was going to be a long day.

And the other thing that disturbed her was that she had liked it. It had without a doubt been the best dream of her life, and she wanted more. Sweet, gentle Dean…what was she going to tell him? That she was having hot, sweaty dreams about the guy he hated most? Why was she even having fantasies about Tristan? What was wrong with the world?


End file.
